


The Doomsday Book, as written by A. Veidt

by Sermocinare



Category: Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Apocalypse, Dystopia, Gen, Mild Gore, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sermocinare/pseuds/Sermocinare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The squid has some unintended consequences in form of a deadly virus, and the smartest man in the world can't do anything to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme

_„I know thy works: behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it.” (Book of Revelations, 3.8)_

 **November 2nd, 1985**  
World population: approximately 4.85 billion people

An alien race attacks New York City, leaving millions dead. Only four people know the truth. 7 hours later, only three people know the truth.

 **November 15th, 1985**  
World population: approximately 4.82 billion people

The aftermath of the alien attack is almost worse than the attack itself. It has taken the rescue workers several days to collect the dead, who are buried, unidentified, in mass graves outside of the city. It would have taken several weeks more to put a name to every body, and New York’s morgues are always full even without an attack of such magnitude. The carcass of the alien has been dismembered, and several parts of it have been shipped to various research facilities for analysis. The rest has been burned at sea, per decree of the acting mayor, a young man who never even wanted the job but got suddenly catapulted to the top of the political hierarchy.

There is something of an epidemic of psychiatric disorders following the attack. Those with a previous record of mental illness, and those whose minds are either sensitive or fragile, experience attacks of psychosis, insomnia, hallucinations, paranoia and a host of other symptoms. The suicide rate skyrockets. Amongst the lost souls escaping their nightmares through means of pills, guns and razorblades are several of the rescue workers, unable to deal with what they saw and had to do.

Among all of this, the death of patient zero goes unnoticed, her name listed in the paper among the dozens of others who died in the hospitals that day.

Meanwhile, Adrian Veidt is busy reshaping the world through careful application of money, influence and resources, the crowbar with which he will move the planet into a better, brighter future. He doesn’t sleep much, either. Not because he can’t, but rather because he has no time for sleep. There is so much to do, and so little time to do it in, if everything is going to be just the way he planned it. Sleep is for the dead, and there are more than enough of those.

 **January 26th, 1986**  
World population: approximately 4.82 billion people

The headlines of the New York Times are still full of reports on the Terrestrial Security Council, the first international political organization to truly have the backing and ear of all of the countries of the world. With the Soviet Union, the USA, China and Europe acting as figureheads towards a united effort of global security, and with the horrific attack still fresh in everyone’s memories, there are hopes that this time, efforts for global understanding and peace will not end in petty squabbling over seats and membership fees.

On page five, Adrian notices a small article about this year’s particularly harsh flu season. The paper quotes figures of about several thousand cases throughout the US, including an unusually high number of deaths, most of them in New York. The reporter then goes on to blame this on the still recovering public health grid of the city, whose hospitals are still holding hundreds of what has been called “squid vets”, people whose mental health is in such bad condition that they need permanent care. Also, the attack has put a serious dent in the number of doctors in the city.

Adrian makes a mental note to check with the WHO if they have anything else on this. Then, he organizes a charity whose aim it will be to raise money for facilities and medical personnel to take care of the poor souls still suffering from the aftermath of his little scheme. Swamped with this and other important rebuilding work, he forgets about the WHO.

 **May 3rd, 1986**  
World population: approximately 4.26 billion people

The WHO is still calling it “a virus of unknown origins”. The media, always quick to put a name on things, is reporting on “the blue death”, or simply “The Blue”. Its symptoms mimic those of the flu. It starts with a headache and a burning pain in the muscles and joints, accompanied by dizziness and slight nausea. Then, the fever hits. By this time, most patients are already coughing, some so hard they break their ribs, but it’s no use – respiratory failure usually sets in five days after the first headache. The incubation period is still a mystery, seemingly fluctuating between a few days and several weeks, but experts at the CDC and WHO are quite certain that the virus is airborne. The death rate, as far as anybody can tell, is at about 25%.

The WHO has issued a global pandemic alert, with reports of infected coming in from almost every country, the only uninfected places so far being those that are mostly unpopulated, and small islands like Madagascar.

People are advised to wear facial masks when outside, wash their hands regularly, and keep away from large gatherings. Several schools and universities have closed down voluntarily, and a lot of cinemas, bars and other public entertainment venues have closed down due to the lack of business.

Like a lot of large businesses, especially those located in New York City, Veidt Enterprises is currently struggling with being understaffed due to workers being afflicted with The Blue. A number of projects are behind schedule, and others have had to be put on hold completely until this is over.

Adrian is in his penthouse, watching TV. The reports on the Terrestrial Security Council have been put on the back seat, most of the news now centring around the virus. There’s a report on CNN. The WHO still hasn’t managed to successfully sequence the genome of the virus. Adrian had “lent” them most of Veidt Enterprises’ genetics staff, but it doesn’t seem to have done any good. A PR man from the CDC is talking about abnormalities in the genome that are so far unprecedented: “It seems almost as if the virus isn’t from this world”.

Adrian redirects his attention to another screen. There’s a report on the esteemed biochemist and exobiology specialist Dr. Leah Morroway, whose work might be a clue to the virus’ puzzling gentetics. Unfortunately, Dr. Morroway vanished about half a year ago.

Adrian switches the channel. There’s a crowd of people, chanting and holding up signs reading “The Blue is a punishment of the Lord” and “The End is Nigh”. Most of them aren’t even wearing their masks. Adrian shakes his head. Religious fear and irrational fanaticism is always one of the first things to go on a rise in times like these. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to shut out the slight headache that is forming behind his temples. Then, his hand, his breathing, his whole body freezes for a moment. A headache.

No, he chides himself, forcing a wry smile and shaking his head. It’s lack of sleep and stress, nothing more. He hasn’t really slept in months, at least not without the help of sleeping pills. Going over to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, Adrian takes out two of the pills and decides to call it an early night.

The next day, with the headache gone, Adrian decides he needs to unwind. Just for a few days. Get away from the office. His retreat in Antarctica has been rebuilt and is once again fully operational, so he instructs his pilot to ready the plane. He will go to Karnak, meditate, enjoy the warm, humid air of the vivarium and, hopefully, come up with something to do about this virus. Just a few days, then he will be back. Of course he will. After all, it’s not as if he is running away.

 **April 6th, 1986**  
World population: approximately 4 billion people.

The virus mutates.


	2. The Red

**April 26th, 1986**  
Wold population: approximately 3,72 billion people

There are many names for it now. The Red. Bleeding Heart. Vampire Disease. It’s because of the haemorrhaging, which starts as a nosebleed that just won’t stop. Then it affects the gums, and after that, the eyes, which turn pink and bulging, until the infected are crying blood. Only 24 hours after the first drops have fallen, the patients drown in their own blood. The death rate for The Red is estimated at about 90%.

In Chernobyl, a small town in the Soviet Union, the failsafe of the cooling system on the dangerously understaffed nuclear power plant fails, causing the reactor to overheat and explode. The cloud of radioactive dust is swept up by the wind, which seeds it all over Eastern and Central Europe.

Only a few days later, a worker infected with The Red accidentally trips the wrong switches in an oil refinery in southern Texas. The subsequent explosion is so powerful that it can be seen on seismographs in the neighbouring states, and the fire is never put out. Crude oil, petroleum and other chemicals drench the earth, trickling down into the ground water and eventually turning up in nearby rivers.

The WHO announces that it has finally managed to sequence most of the virus’ genetic structure, which seems to incorporate some sequences that are otherwise only found in one other place: the alien carcass. The nervous, pale representative tries to be optimistic, telling the cameras that now that the virus is sequenced, it might be possible to come up with a vaccine. He doesn’t even mention the word “cure”.

Adrian knows that he is lying. The virus is mutating too fast, and the sequence is too complex, too unlike anything anyone has ever seen. Anyone, that is, except the four geneticists and biochemical experts who are now lying at the bottom of the sea, after their ship exploded. He stares at his TV screens, several of which are showing nothing but static. Communications are starting to break down. Several of the smaller networks are no longer broadcasting. He wonders, for a moment, how long it will take before even the large ones are reduced to nothing but an emergency message.

Turning away from current events for the time, Adrian immerses himself in history. The Spanish Flu. The Bubonic and Pneumonic Plague, also known as the Black Death, although he is quite sure that it was in fact not one, but several different diseases. The Plague of Justinian. Cholera. Smallpox. Typhoid. Ebola. He reads about the pandemics of history, about the horrors and the dead. Entire villages wiped out. People descending into fanaticism, panic and violence. He turns on his TV screens, and it seems as if the woodcarvings from his books have come to life in vivid, blood-red color and crystal-clear sound. The clothes look different. The people seem the same. They are crying, screaming, raging, against the heavens and each other. He retreats to the vivarium, but he can still hear them, screaming.

He is no longer taking sleeping pills. His body has become to used to them, and they no longer work. The dosage that would put him to sleep would do so forever. Adrian throws them away, hurls them out into the snow, his arm shaking. Instead, he is taking caffeine pills. He stays awake 60, 70 hours at a time. He has no desire to sleep, or even close his eyes. He can’t close his eyes, he has work to do, a world to save. And then there are the faces.

 **July 4th, 1986**  
World population: approximately 2.5 billion

Civilization is starting to break down in most parts of the world. People are fleeing the cities, hoping to find refuge from the virus in some less densely populated part of the country. Those who can go to places even further away, remote villages that usually can’t be found on most maps. They carry the virus with them.

There are no more schools. Government is stripped down to the bare bones, but then, there are neither enough politicians left, nor people for them to govern. Public order depends on the individual, since civil services,too, have broken down. Factories are closed, and there have been several more accidents involving chemical and nuclear plants. Most crops will remain unharvested, eventually withering in the fields. People are nervous, desperate, and looking for a scapegoat. They find it in each other.

Pestilence. Death. Hunger. War.

Adrian is immersing himself in apocalyptic visions, from Ragnarok to the Book of Revelations. The Gods, unleashing their fury on their children. Punishing the sinners and unbelievers for their wicked ways. The more he reads, the stronger his feelings of anger and impotent rage get. How dare they punish everyone for the sins of only a few? And why would anyone believe in, even worship beings that are capable of such horrible crimes? Adrian hurls the book at the wall, screaming. Pacing up and down in his library, he wraps his arms around his chest, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt, which is hanging loosely around his emaciated frame. He can feel his ribs poke through his skin. He should probably eat more. But then, he has to make his rations last, because there will be no more once they are gone. They have to last him at least through the howling fury of the Antarctic winter.

 **November 2nd, 1986**  
World population: approximately 50 million

The virus is retreating. Those who are still alive are either immune or live in areas so remote and cut off form the rest of the world that the virus never reached them.

The survivors are scattered across the globe. Some have banded together to form small communities, mostly in and around the emergency centers that were set up by their governments before total collapse, the locations of which were broadcast via emergency signal over every available airwave. Others wander around the countryside alone or in small groups, either because they never got the signal, or because they chose to stay away from other humans, still fearing infection. In some countries, there were no emergency plans.

The dead far outnumber the living, and since there is no one left to bury them, they are rotting in the streets or in their homes. Their bodies provide food for wild animals, many of which are now moving into the cities that have been abandoned by their former occupants. With the electricity grids having broken down, there is no more light in New York City at night save that provided by the moon and the stars. Instead of the noise of cars and people, the city is now awash with silence, only broken occasionally by the bark of a fox or the howl of a dog.

A year ago, Adrian wasn’t there to witness the destruction first-hand. Now, stumbling aimlessly through the canyons of the city, he wonders for the first time how those who did witness it may have felt. Were they afraid? Did they feel helpless? Were they angry, confused, shocked? He turns a corner and spooks a murder of crows that had been feasting on the half-decayed carcass of a plague victim. Flapping their black wings, the crows caw and screech, their beady eyes looking down on him with malice.

He rounds another corner and finds himself standing in front of the main entrance to Veidt Towers. He didn’t want to come here, but his feet have carried him here as if by a mind and will of their own. The large doors are hanging open, the glass inside and around them smashed, leaving jagged edges that look like teeth. There are bills stuck to the walls around the doors, notices on emergency measures and the location of the nearest emergency center. Adrian tears one down, stuffs it in his pocket, then decides differently and throws it away.

Inside, there is even more chaos. Everything is broken, scattered and out of place. Old newspapers and flyers litter the floor, and there is graffiti on the wall. “See you in hell”. “The end is really fucking nigh”. And, in dripping red letters that almost reach the ceiling, “DESPAIR”.

He should be turning around, leaving the city for the emergency center, or at least look for food or water. Instead, Adrian begins the long climb up the stairs until he has reached the small door that leads out onto the roof of the building. As he steps outside, the sun is setting behind a line of buildings on the horizon, bathing the city in a reddish glow. He can hear the calls of animals, floating up from the street level below.

It feels almost peaceful. And it is, really. With not enough people left to fight one another, the world is finally at peace. Adrian can’t help but laugh at that, a shrieking, hysterical sound that bounces off the nearby skyscrapers, doubling and redoubling until it is all he can hear.

“I did it,” he whispers, first to himself, then, louder, to the world at large: “I did it!”  
He bends down, picks up a small pebble, and throws it at the façade of the opposing building, watching it fall in a graceful arc until it bounces off a window. “And you, you didn’t stop me! Why didn’t you stop me?” Adrian is trembling now, screaming at the empty city and the even emptier universe. Hugging himself, he crouches down, looking over the rooftops of the abandoned world. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “this isn’t how I had planned it. This isn’t how it should have been. I’m sorry.”

Five days later, Adrian Veidt succumbs to the virus, one of its last victims before it goes dormant.


End file.
